


Albedo

by neverminetohold



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Angst, Gen, Guide!Q, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot & Drabble Collection, Sentinel!Bond, Slash, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M never mentioned that Q was a Guide. It took a meeting for Bond to find out and nothing more than the tingling of his palm and the younger man's unique smell to rouse the Sentinel in him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fork In The Road

_It always makes me feel a little melancholy - a grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?_  
  
James remained sitting on the bench when light footsteps faded, rooted to the spot. To the few people wandering around, admiring the paintings, it must have looked as if he was absorbed in his study of the Temeraire.  
  
 _007\. I'm your new Quartermaster._  
  
He had no eyes for the ship, the soft glow of gold and pigments of brown, did not allow the finer focus to set in that would have revealed where the brush strokes had become hesitant in their flow from left to right. James had zoned on Turner's moody seascape once before, as a young boy, he knew that the artist's hands had begun to shake with strain while applying the white highlights.  
  
 _Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?_  
  
No, James didn't move because he feared his instinct might get the better of him, compel him to follow Q. The younger man's smell dominated the salon: bergamot and gun oil, metal and a faint whiff of perspiration underneath; less acidic, more musky-sweet. Pleasant. Such an unusual combination would linger in the dry air for quite some time; an easy trail for a Sentinel to track to its origin.  
  
 _My complexion is hardly relevant._  
  
He looked down at his palm, rough and worn, strong fingers full of calluses; a gunman's hand, a killers hand. His skin still tingled with the memory of firm pressure, a calm pulse under his fingertip, and warmth.  
  
 _Age is no guarantee of efficiency._  
  
James remained seated because his duty came first; failing a mission was not an option. He waited until the pull of possibilities faded with distance, carried out of the National Gallery with each step Q took towards MI6 HQ.  
  
 _I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field._  
  
Had the quartermaster even noticed? If he made it back alive, James resolved to do something reckless. Taking a chance while there was still soul left in him seemed like a good idea.  
  
James got up and left; each controlled breath shallow until cold air hit him.


	2. Was About To Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want Q."

M was sitting at her desk, about to sign a document, when the glass door to her office was opened with the kind of disregard for her position she had come to associate with exactly one special agent on MI6's payroll.  
  
She didn't bother to look up from the blueprint she had spread out to her left, one edge weighed down with her cup of tea. Nearly silent footsteps came closer, their sound swallowed by the thick carpet.  
  
“007. I was not aware that we have an appointment.”  
  
“We don't.”  
  
“Maybe I should have Moneypenny shoot you,” she commented. M left her pen to rest on the feasibility report Q-branch had submitted for clearance. “I'm sure she would enjoy it.”  
  
“I want Q.”  
  
A momentary silence settled over the room, only interrupted by the hum of the computer terminals. M took off her glasses, settled back in her well worn leather chair, and finally looked up to give Bond a once over.  
  
His grey suit was rumpled, one sleeve torn and lapels flecked with blood. He was unshaven, face pale, and the dark circles under his eyes matched the bruise spreading over his left cheekbone.  
  
Bond had obviously skipped both his mission debrief with Tanner and the mandatory visit in medical to come straight to her. More importantly his hands were steady, arrogant expression firmly in place and he had not made any attempt to raid her liquor cabinet. - Yet.  
  
M suppressed a sigh, wondering why nothing could ever be simple with this insufferable man. Of course Bond 'wanted' Q, of all Guides. He should get in line and draw a number.  
  
Bond smirked under her scrutiny, one eyebrow rising as he returned her stare, completely unfazed. Familiarity had both its perks and its drawbacks.  
  
“Do you?” she asked, giving nothing away, her tone matching her cold look. “Whatever for?”  
  
Bond's stance shifted as he tried and failed to get a read on her. “He is a Guide. You have been pestering me to work with one ever since I came online. He must be new on the list, yet you never mentioned him.”  
  
M took a sip of her cooling tea to hide a grimace. Bond really had no idea. Hardly a surprise, considering that Q's file required a security clearance way above his pay grade and was only available as a digital copy, which meant that he had had no means to steal or otherwise access it.  
  
“And you feel that the two of you are compatible?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
That simple answer gave M pause. After the whole mess first in Russia, then Venice and finally Chile, she had forced Bond on a long-term mission that had been rehabilitation in disguise. Which meant that Q and him had met for the first time in the National Gallery two weeks ago.  
  
Bond was not given to acting on impulse, well, at least not where his private life was concerned. Q had obviously left an impression.  
  
“I see. And what is Q's opinion on the matter?”  
  
“I haven't asked him yet,” Bond admitted. He had the decency to sound sheepish; M realized she must have given him an incredulous look. “But I'm sure he will be flattered.”  
  
“Flattered my ass,” M muttered under her breath and huffed a laugh. “Unbelievable.”  
  
“Ma'am?” Bond's eyes narrowed at her outburst.  
  
“You are very convinced of yourself, Bond.”  
  
“No more so than usual,” he said with a careless shrug. “You wouldn't want me any other way.”  
  
“Of course not. I appreciate your arrogance. If nothing else, it makes you predictable.”  
  
She was inexplicably fond of Bond, more so than was advisable, perhaps, but that did not mean that her primary concern was anything other than getting results. Allowing 007 a long leash was a matter of securing a tactical advantage and self interest.  
  
“Always glad to be of service.”  
  
Bond turned his back on her and walked over to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself two fingers of her Macallan. She watched him drink for a moment.  
  
“Q is not mine to just 'give' to you and even if he were, I would strongly advice him to reject you. Anything else would be a waste.”  
  
He sat the empty glass down harder than necessary. “I only felt his presence when we shook hands. Is that the reason? You fear I would overwhelm him?”  
  
'Burn him out like Vesper,' Bond didn't add.  
  
Here it surfaced again, Bond's driving force, a special blend of remorse and guilt, mixed with loyalty to Queen and country.  
  
“James. You seem to labour under the misapprehension that this is about you. It is not.” M paused, waiting for him to turn around and face her. “Q is by far the most talented Guide to ever be tested, possibly in the whole of Europe. You, on the other hand, are a second rate Sentinel. Anything beyond a working relationship between the two of you would be an utter waste of Q's potential.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
M studied his face, the working muscles in his clenched jaw, that icy look, the determined set of his shoulders. “I doubt it.”  
  
Bond stopped at the glass door, hand on the silver knob to open it. “You won't interfere?”  
  
“The decision is up to Q. And James.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Good luck. Dealing with our quartermaster, you will need it.”  
  
M watched him leave, past Moneypenny who looked anything but amused that he had used her coffee break to sneak past without permission. M caught her eye and nodded, indicating it was fine; no harm done.  
  
She wondered what Bond might do from here on out, and almost reached for her phone to warn Q... On second thought, scratch that, she needed a stiff drink.  
  
She sighed to herself, “I better make that three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I botched up the timeline. Skyfall events will be dealt with later, just pretend that Q and James met in the course of another mission.


	3. The Start Of Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A butterfly in Q-branch is a rare sight, spirit or not.

One workplace in the R&D department of MI6's Q-branch was still illuminated by stark white light despite the late hour. Beyond that circle of activity the other stations were powered down for the night; employees long gone.  
  
Q enjoyed the silence, though he made it a rule to not indulge himself too often. Allowing his performance to suffer due to sleep deprivation would have been hardly professional, after all.  
  
He would miss the freedom to come down here and work on his pet projects whenever he pleased, but Q looked forward to his new duties, including handling the 00-agents out in the field. That three of them were Sentinels would only add to the challenge.  
  
He took another sip of his cooling tea, attention fixed on the screen before him, teeming with lines of code. Sadly, his tinkering with explosives had been interrupted. He added a command, typing one handed. The aroma of bergamot was heavy on his tongue, the amber brew strong and undiluted by sugar or milk, just as he preferred.  
  
Immersed as he was in cracking the firewall of an American tycoon whose business transactions had been red flagged by an automatic search program, it took Q a moment to realize that he had company.  
  
He finally looked up when something fluttered through the cone of light above him, casting a shadow over his typing hands; then his face. A small butterfly was tumbling around the computer screens as if hesitating to settle down. When it did its wings spread out for balance, showing its colours.  
  
Q pushed his glasses up and bent forward to get a closer look, intrigued by the display that pushed a sense of determination against his shields.  
  
It was a _cupido minimus_ , commonly known as a 'Small Blue' in Britain, belonging to the family _lycanenidae_ , if he remembered correctly. Its wings were the typical dark brown of its species, speckled with blue suffusions that shimmered in the fluorescent light, while the margin was white. The wings closed for a second, revealing silver grey undersides with black dots.  
  
“And who might you belong to?” Q wondered aloud, watching the insects slow process over the slippery casing. It came perilously close to the screen's edge. “Whoever it is should take better care of you, or rather himself, don't you agree, little one?”  
  
As a matter of fact, while still beautiful in an understated, easily overlooked way, the butterfly had seen better days. Its bright margin was frayed, the left hindwing more so than the other three, and lines of dead scales littered its entirety like old scars.  
  
There was an answering flicker of emotions, come and gone too quickly for Q to get an accurate reading. It would not have been wise to lower his shields, considering that MI6 well saw the benefits of hiring both Sentinels and Guides.  
  
“Careful, there, little one.”  
  
He had barely said the words when the butterfly's spindly legs lost traction. It slipped but caught itself with difficulty and Q offered his hand as a safe landing place.  
  
It hovered over his fingertip and for once Q went with his instinct, projecting calm and the reassurance that he meant no harm. The butterfly shied away in sudden alarm and dissolved, its form collapsing in a cloud of dark particles; a moment later Q heard it himself - the sound of approaching footsteps.  
  
Q had returned to his work by the time Bond strode in. Of all the 00-agents his presence was the most familiar one, if only because of its razor edge intensity that demanded attention.  
  
“007.”  
  
“...Q.”  
  
He felt Bond's gaze between his shoulder blades as the older man tried to judge his mood; Q's greeting had been laced with anger at the sudden interruption. He could see Bond's reflection in the screen before him, the dark circles under his searching eyes, the bloodied lapels of his suit.  
  
Putting two and two together was hardly a challenge.  
  
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Q asked, more civil.  
  
“Just wanted to give you these,” Bond said. He came closer, mindful to keep his distance, as required when in contact with a Guide, and set his Walther PPK and the radio down on Q's desk. “Here.”  
  
He stepped back, but Q had noticed the flare of Bond's nostrils and felt the barest prodding to test his shields. He did not react to the breach of protocol, unwilling to take the bait. He picked up the gun, giving it a quick once-over. It had miraculously survived the mission with hardly a scratch, despite Bond's well documented reputation.  
  
“You can leave now, if that was all.”  
  
Bond made no move to do so. “I see you are besides yourself with joy.”  
  
“Returning your equipment in working order should be the norm, not reason for celebration,” Q informed him tartly.  
  
“Your shields are strong.”  
  
“Your headache will be even stronger. - Don't ever do that again.”  
  
It was a blatant warning, too aggressive perhaps for what had been nothing more than a cursory check of his abilities, but the scars in his mind burned with reawakened memories and he preferred to nip this kind of behaviour in the bud right away when dealing with an overbearing Sentinel.  
  
There was a moment of silence, the hesitation so unlike from what he expected of Bond that Q's fingers stilled on the keyboard and he instinctively braced himself, hands pressed flat on his desk.  
  
Bond must have picked up on something, what exactly Q could not be sure of, but his voice lost much of its coldness. “Understood. I'm looking forward to working with you, Quartermaster.”  
  
Q turned at the whisper of clothing. Recognizing the challenge within the peace offering he took the offered hand, his grip firm and sure.  
  
“Likewise, 007.”  
  
  
 _This great purple butterfly,_  
 _In the prison of my hands,_  
 _Has a learning in his eye_  
 _Not a poor fool understands._  
  
 _~William Butler Yeats, "Another Song of a Fool"_

 

 

Note: This what a cupido minimus looks like: _  
_

__


	4. The Intimate Act of Cookie Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond would have tasted the same; like vanilla and a hint of chilli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who left a comment and/or kudos!

“I said: turn _right_.”  
  
“So you did.” Bond looked up, straight into the lens of the next security camera. “I prefer the stairs.”  
  
Q shrugged and checked the video feed on the LCD screen, “My regards to the welcoming committee.”  
  
“How many?”  
  
“Three. They are playing cards at a table to the left of the exit.”  
  
He reached for his steaming Scrabble mug and took a careful sip; hiding a smile. Initially, it had disturbed him, how quickly he had become accustomed to both Bond's casual disregard for orders and the accompanying banter; not to forget the flirting. His first impression of the Sentinel had not been a favourable one, but Bond had taken his warning to heart and behaved, in his own amusing, contrary way. If questioned, Q would be hard pressed to deny that he enjoyed working with 007.  
  
Thus they had settled into a routine of sorts with such ease it had baffled most of MI6 - with the exception of Moneypenny who had only smirked and said 'I knew you two would hit it off.'  
  
“Q, I'm disappointed.” Bond sounded amused, even over the static of an echoing staircase. “Not even a token protest?”  
  
“Eight missions in three months have disabused me of the notion that you will ever follow my orders,” Q answered mildly. He sent a coded message to the extraction team; they would need to relocate. “Though I do remember the odd occasion where you did listen. Almost dying seems to make you more open minded to suggestions.”  
  
“We would have lost the hard drive in Somalia had I stuck to the plan.”  
  
“Exactly.” Q pushed up his glasses. “What I meant to say, 007, is that I have learned to trust your own assessment of a given situation.”  
  
Q took another sip of his Earl Grey. He was not surprised that no answer came over the speakers, the only noise being Bond's steady breaths as he took two stairs at a time. Trust was a word never used lightly in their business, but he felt Bond needed to hear it. What the man made of it was his own business.  
  
“Reaching the basement now.”  
  
The sound of quick footsteps was drowned out by three shots and the muffled thunk of as many bodies dropping to the ground. A door opened with a horror flick worthy screech.  
  
“007 out.”  
  
XXX  
  
Q couldn't help himself, he stared. “One mission without complications of the violent and explosive kind and you want to celebrate that with -”  
  
“Cookies,” Bond confirmed and offered him a Big Ben shaped piece out of a Tupperware container. As Q made no move to reach for it he added wryly, “I heard they go well with Earl Grey.”  
  
“Did you now?” Q inspected the pastry with all the haughty suspicion he could muster while Bond's amusement washed over his shields. Not an unpleasant sensation, that. “Are you trying to poison me?”  
  
“And here I thought you trusted me.”  
  
“I do, in the field, and with your own life. Mine is another matter entirely,” Q informed him, but his words lacked bite.  
  
No wonder that, since he was too distracted by his overactive imagination crossing into Twilight Zone territory by showing him an image of Bond, standing in his kitchen, apron and all, stirring cookie dough in a bowl.  
  
Q's smirk dropped under Bond's intense stare that bordered on fascination. It made him uncomfortable, and he snapped, “What?”  
  
“What were you thinking about just now?”  
  
“Taking a chance,” Q hedged and reached for the cookie.  
  
Instead of letting go, Bond flicked his wrist; breaking it. He popped his half into his mouth, chewed and swallowed with an exaggerated moan of pleasure. Q felt his gaze drawn to his lips. As far as manipulation went this was the most obvious kind, which made it hardly less effective.  
  
“See?” Bond said, and wiped some crumbs away, his tongue darting out to lick them from his thumb. “Clean.”  
  
Q quirked an eyebrow, aiming for unimpressed, and took a bite from his own half. He was exceedingly grateful that he wasn't given to blushing. The rest of the cookie followed quickly; he had not realized how hungry he was until now, that Bond had gotten it into his head to feed him.  
  
He recognized the taste instantly: vanilla, cinnamon and the slightest touch of chilli. “Moneypenny will skin you alive for stealing her cookies.”  
  
Bond shrugged and leaned against the edge of Q's desk. “Another?”  
  
“Gladly.”  
  
This time it was Q who broke the sweet Big Ben imitation in half instead of just taking a whole one, and Bond smiled, faint and all the more genuine for it. They shared the whole container that way, wilfully ignoring the possibility of Moneypenny's wraith come tomorrow; like schoolboys, hands-deep in the jar without a sense of guilt.  
  
Q settled back into his chair, relaxed and sated to the point that he didn't react at once when Bond bent down until their eyes were level. He didn't say anything, just waited for him to make his move with mild curiosity.  
  
The whole world seemed to shrink down to the two of them, alone in the R&D department, close enough that Q could feel the heat of Bond's body; the brush of his jacket on his wrist. He was even more keenly aware of the tension in the Sentinel, the tight control he exerted over his emotions.  
  
Then a careful fingertip brushed a crumb from his lower lip, making it tingle. Q felt the pull of possibilities humming between them, not quite an invitation yet, more a question – and shied away.  
  
He couldn't trust it, but for a second he wanted to. Q looked away, using his feet to give his office chair a push that sent him rolling half a meter, to the other end of his desk.  
  
Bond had straightened instantly, putting welcome distance between them. “I should leave,” he murmured and stood. “Goodnight, Q.”  
  
Q watched him, how he smoothed down his suit, Tupperware container in one hand, loosening his tie with the other. He made no move to stop Bond as he reached the open space between the abandoned workstations and the glass door.  
  
There was a speckle of blue, dancing over Bond's shoulder the moment his hand touched the pad that would let the glass slide away to let him pass.  
  
Q might not have been ready, might choose otherwise, didn't have an answer, but he would be damned if he let the night end like this, taking the cowards way out in silence he would only regret later, when he woke up the next morning, alone in his flat. “James.”  
  
Bond stilled and looked back; a tiny butterfly clinging to the breast pocket of his suit like a handkerchief. “Yes?”  
  
All the words Q could think to say seemed insufficient; he settled for a simple, “Thank you” and a smile, one he did nothing to hide. And if he lowered his shields just a little bit and Bond shifted in reaction, it only felt right.  
  
Bond nodded, posture relaxing. “Next time you can steal the cookies.”  
  
“Cute.”  
  
“One of us should be.”  
  
Q snorted, tension draining away as he returned Bond's nod and watched him leave. He licked his lips, tasting vanilla and the slightest sting of chilli on his tongue.  
  
  
[ _“Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.” ~ M. F. K. Fisher_ ]


	5. Match You (If I Can)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those two need a push in the right direction...

“Where is he?”  
  
Eve kept typing as Bond sat down in front of her desk. The chair's leather creaked as he shifted to find a more comfortable position. He was trying to be discreet about it, but she had seen the photographs medical had attached to his last mission report.  
  
The stubborn git was supposed to be on leave for the next three days. Hell, had _she_ been this bruised and sore, she would have done the sensible thing and stayed at home. But not Bond, no, of course not. Good thing he abhorred sympathy on principle.  
  
“'Hello Moneypenny, you look as lovely as always.'” She clicked her way through another standard form before looking at him with a sweet smile. “'Why, thank you, Mr. Bond. I wish I could say the same about you.'”  
  
Bond didn't look amused. “Where is Q?”  
  
Eve raised an eyebrow at his curt tone, but decided to interpret it as genuine worry for a Quartermaster who was nowhere to be found within the MI6 building. And Bond must have looked, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up here in search of information.  
  
“If you must know, he took the day off.”  
  
“He took the day off,” Bond echoed, the disbelief clear in his voice.  
  
Eve knew how often he had kept Q company while the latter stayed late into the night down in R & D, coding and tinkering; the younger man tolerating his silent presence without comment.  
  
She had been less angry about her stolen cookies when she had discovered that Bond had put them to good use. She might even let him get away with it because of the way Q seemed to smile more when he was around.  
  
“That's what I said.” Eve shrugged. “Trust me, my world view was as shaken as yours, but even a workaholic can take leave now and then.”  
  
“You won't tell me where he is,” Bond said, skipping ahead in the script. He watched her for a reaction and smirked. “Because you don't know.”  
  
Eve rolled her eyes, because – really? She wasn't that easy to manipulate, thank you very much; that kind of information was confidential for a reason. And this stalker routine was hardly one she should support, even if it was to be expected, what with a double-00 agent having it this bad. It was, however, kind of cute.  
  
“No, I don't,” she muttered, deep in thought.  
  
On the other hand this seemed like the perfect opportunity to get those two a bit of quality alone-time. After all, as a good friend, it was her duty to give them a little push in the right direction.  
  
Q had confided in her during lunch break two days ago; he was reluctant, yes, but not totally averse to the idea. True, there was something he kept silent about, a reason for his hesitation, some kind of pain that hadn't lessened over time and made him cautious; mistrustful.  
  
However, whatever Q's problem was, Eve felt confident about the honesty of Bond's interest, because he – despite being known as a hopeless womaniser and, frankly, arrogant arse – had been putting in an awful lot of effort. And he had shown admirable restraint.  
  
Besides, she could always kill him if he dared to hurt Q. Yes, that sounded about right... Without a body there wouldn't be any repeat performance of his trademark 'resurrection' skills... How about the Mariana Trench...?  
  
“Earth to Moneypenny.”  
  
“Yes,” she said, blinking slowly; mind made up. “I really don't know where he is. But what we both know is that he has a tracker, just like every other agent working for MI6. So if you were to go down to Q-branch and glare intimidatingly at one of those mousy technicians...” She let the sentence drift off into meaningful silence.  
  
Bond's lips stretched into a slow smirk. “You're a terrible influence.”  
  
“I think you have that backwards,” Eve pointed out wryly. “But you're welcome.”  
  
She watched him leave, moving with newfound energy and purpose, and silently wished him luck.  
  
  
  
[ _"Because it's obvious you and Agent Booth were attracted to each other. I mean a blind man could see that. I just couldn't understand why you two just didn't rip each other's clothes off. I mean just get all butt-naked and - Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Uh. I'm - I'm sorry. It just popped out, okay?" ― Clark Edison, Bones_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background info (because I'm not sure whether it will come up in the FF itself): Within MI6 only M, Tanner and parts of the medical staff know about Sentinels/Guides. So Moneypenny is not privy to the special complications/second layer of attraction going on between Bond and Q.


	6. There You Are, Here I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found him where everything started and then he simply tried, his mind made up.

James crossed the Trafalgar Square and climbed the stairs to the National Gallery's entrance portico more slowly than he would have preferred; his limp more pronounced now than it had been when seeing Moneypenny.  
  
Following the path to the second level came with a sense of déjà vu that was, for once, entirely welcome. Interesting that Q would choose to come here on his day off, or perhaps he had meant to make it easy for James to find him. The thought made him smile as he moved out of the way of tourists.  
  
With the weather outside overcast, the wind smelling of rain and the skies darkening rapidly, many people had sought refuge in the neoclassical rooms with their wine-red and petrol-blue tapestry, polished parquet and pieces of art.  
  
A cursory look around not revealing his mark, James inhaled deeply; nostrils flaring. Filtering through the feedback had become second nature over the years, even though MI6 training taught Sentinels to not rely on their senses, to only use them sparingly; minimizing the inherent risks.  
  
Floating on the surface of less pleasant smells – sweat, syrupy perfume, damp clothes, cigarette smoke – and standing out because of its familiarity, its note of personal importance to James, was Q's individual scent: bergamot and gun oil.  
  
Knowing now that Q was indeed here, James let go of the picture his sense of smell had created, its vividness a reassurance that the Quartermaster was close by, and shifted his focus on sight.  
  
A hair, caught in the air currents and shimmering between particles of dust suddenly stood out in sharp relief, as did every brush stroke of the paintings hanging on the walls, the gold of their frames, the wrinkles of an elderly lady, the bright pink of a little girls T-shirt – and there, a mop of dark brown hair, almost hidden by the rumpled hood of a fishtail parka.  
  
Q stiffened with the sensitivity of a Guide who felt the keen attention and turned half-way, allowing James a glance at 'The Adoration of the Kings' by Jan Gossaert. He lost track of him when a group of stage-whispering tourists passed through his line of sight.  
  
Feeling the pull of too many distractions, James closed his eyes, and waited for his heightened senses to settle, before opening them again. He had not zoned out in years, not since he had been in his late teens, yet it wouldn't do to become careless.  
  
Wanting a Guide was an entirely different matter from needing one to function, which was the main reason why he didn't envy 004 with his five senses, instead of merely two.  
  
He started moving, now sure of his destination, and turned right, passing rooms devoted to Rubens, Murillo, Guercino and Chardin, to end up where all of this had started: in room 34, where Q sat on a bench in front of Turner's 'The Fighting Temeraire'.  
  
“Bond. Are you stalking me?”  
  
Q's gaze remained fixed on the Temeraire, and James was, like so often, at a loss when it came to reading him. It was part of Q's appeal, his penchant to surprise and defy expectations, to be the part that never quite fit; that he had no tell.  
  
“Would you prefer for me to leave?”  
  
“No,” Q looked up then, green eyes far more inviting than his tone had been. He patted the empty space beside him. “Stay.”  
  
James sat down, closer than was strictly necessary, and caught the edge of a knowing smile. He inhaled deeply, indulging himself, and decided he liked this new smell, his own, usually ignored, mingling with Q's. A simple breath lend this moment an intimacy that didn't require something as blunt as touch.  
  
“This must really be your favourite.”  
  
James made a vague gesture towards Turner's painting, feeling the brush of his coat against Q's parka, and the warmth underneath, as he encompassed the ship, the sun and the golden rays, reflecting on particles of ocean-blue paint.  
  
Q huffed a noise that spoke of wry amusement. “As a matter of fact it was Tanner who set this place up for our meeting, on M's behalf. I suppose one of the two wanted to make a point.”  
  
James bumped Q's shoulder gently with his own, saying, “You sure did.”  
  
“True, though in my defence – you started it.”  
  
“You still have spots.”  
  
Q shrugged. “So I do.”  
  
They settled into companionable silence and James felt himself relax like he rarely did in public, yet without losing the keen awareness of his environment that kept him alive in the field.  
  
It took not long for him to realize that this was Q's doing. That was a thrilling thought, because emotions did not leak through the shields of a high ranking Guide by accident.  
  
James had only ever worked with Guides when he needed to employ his senses to their full extent as a mission requirement. He had never wanted to share with them, to allow them this close; to let them in. Not once since Vesper, and that had ended in tragedy.  
  
 _'It was time. To realize sometimes you can forget the past.'_  
  
He remembered her saying that, but she hadn't, not until it was too late and then her decision had cost her life in exchange for his – and it had taken M explaining Vesper's motivations for him to finally understand that.  
  
James will follow her advice, now that he has found Q, and this time, he would neither stop nor let go. But that was his decision – Q's was still pending.  
  
Now that he wanted the bond that was unique between Sentinel and Guide, James was at a loss what to do, so he simply tried.  
  
Q beside him flinched, taken off guard, but before James could exert full control once more, he relaxed. The breath he pushed out was a little bit shaky, but his smile calmed the first traces of panic James felt rising in his gut.  
  
“There is no need to push this hard. I am - ,” Q hesitated, then leaned closer, a warm weight against James' side. “I am already very attuned to your emotional state. Especially with us being this close.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” James said, his words stirring wisps of dark hair.  
  
“Don't be. I imagine you haven't done this very often.”  
  
“I never wanted to.”  
  
He felt, _shared_ , the ephemeral rush of Q's pleasure, let it pass through him, to soak up his own and sent it back. There was that thrill again, and suddenly, all the people milling around them seemed set apart by an invisible barrier, for they had no notion what a true bond could mean.  
  
Then the moment passed; Q nodded and sat up straight again. “I see.”  
  
James thought, _Yes. I believe you do._  
  
Aloud he asked, “Dinner?” He stood and offered his hand. “I know a nice Italian restaurant not too far from here.”  
  
Q's grip was strong. “I see we're working our way up from stolen cookies.”  
  
“Let's see where we end up.”  
  
He didn't let go as they passed through the rooms and down the stairs, matching Q's shorter strides; only felt the need to when they made a mad dash through sheets of rain to reach his Aston Martin.  
  
  
[ _"The longest period of time is waiting for someone you truly want."_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now they are holding hands. At this rate, we might reach a first kiss some day after all... ;)


	7. 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their dinner leads to trivial, oh-so-important secrets being shared...

It turned out that the “Stuzzico” was indeed a nice Italian restaurant not too far from Hyde Park. Q had expected something posh, the kind of place Bond frequented on missions, so he was pleasantly surprised by the warm atmosphere, even if the menu was decidedly pizza-free.  
  
He felt relaxed by the time the light outside had faded, eating his excellent Parmigiana to the murmur of the other patrons, while Bond dipped the last of his salmon into the decorative spots of wine sauce on his plate.  
  
After they had finished the main course and the table was cleared Bond caught the eye of a waitress. She soon came back and placed a glass of Macallan and the bill-fold down within easy reach; her suggestive smile turned frosty as it was ignored.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want one for the road?" Bond asked, swirling the amber content of his glass with a connoisseurs appreciation.  
  
"I am." Q waited until Bond had settled the bill and the young woman was gone, then added: "Every Guide is well-advised to avoid alcohol, as I'm sure you know."  
  
"And here I misjudged you as a lightweight."  
  
Q caught himself studying the amused tilt of Bond's lips with the same intensity he usually reserved for lines of code. It felt natural, considering that his whole awareness of Bond had shifted since their sharing in the National Gallery.  
  
Q took a sip of his mineral water, then admitted with a shrug, “You didn't.”  
  
Whether he could hold his liquor or not was of no consequence, but it was one of the precious few informations not included in any of the files MI6 had about him. That fact lent it an importance people outside their line of work would fail to properly appreciate. Bond, of course, noticed its significance immediately and Q felt the gentle rush of his piqued curiosity.  
  
"Tell me more, Q."  
  
His voice was soft, oddly hesitant, and Q knew all came down to trust again, that one elusive thing they were both reluctant to give. Having started them on this road, Q resolved to keep things lightly.  
  
"More trivia?" he offered and propped his chin up on his hand in consideration; elbow resting on the tabletop. "Friendship book level, perhaps?"  
  
"Really, Q?" Bond utterly failed to sound doubtful.  
  
"Silly idea, isn't it?" Q raised one eyebrow. "Especially when you suddenly look so intrigued."  
  
Their eyes met over the candlelight and Bond huffed a laugh that turned some heads from neighbouring tables.  
  
"Please go ahead."  
  
"Good. So... My favourite colour is blue - "  
  
"How fortunate for me." Q gave him a half-hearted glare. "Mine is black."  
  
"- and animal would be the magpie."  
  
"German shepherd." Bond hesitated, then added: "We had one in West Berlin, for a short while."  
  
Q, knowing better than to pick at a wound that was scabbed-over with repression and denial, decided not to comment. “You just treated me to my favourite dish and I'm sure you filled my Scrabble mug often enough by now.”  
  
Bond grimaced. “My suits smell of bergamot after debrief.”  
  
"How terribly inconvenient."  
  
His smile was rather disarming as Bond said, “Not really.”  
  
"Macallan?"  
  
"Yes, but in a bind any whisky will do. And I have no favourite dish, though Moneypenny's cookies might come close."  
  
"Duly noted." Q drained his glass. "What is left? Oh yes. I hate do admit to any kind of cliché but I do love the first 'Tron' movie. And I've read 'The Count of Monte Cristo' eight times to date."  
  
"That often? Why?"  
  
Q, for once, did not think before answering and did so with venom in his voice: “The thought of taking revenge and yet sailing into the sunset unchecked appealed to me for a long time when I was younger.”  
  
The sudden tension pulling at muscles his cardigan might have covered but the instinctive bracing of his shields was damning. The atmosphere in the large room shifted, catching something darker where they sat.  
  
Bond leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “Q - “  
  
"No James." Q looked down, felt those sharp blue eyes watching him. He had said 'please' without using the word and they both knew it. "Not yet."  
  
As hoped-for, Bond let it go, choosing instead to take his turn: “I don't read much, but I really liked 'Perfume'. I doubt you'll have heard of it, it is - “  
  
"- the story of the murderer Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, who set out to create the perfect perfume with the help of his extraordinary sense of smell. Sadly, his methods left much to be desired and shortened the life expectancy of many young women," Q finished for him too quickly, smile flat and forced.  
  
The light mood lost they agreed to call it a day soon after, yet the only thing Q felt from Bond was his frustration at not being able to understand and offer comfort.  
  
It was a short walk from the restaurant to where the Aston Martin was parked; Q burrowed into his parka against the chill wind.  
  
"I would offer to drive you home but I'm sure you would decline."  
  
It was more a statement of fact than a question, though Q felt the hint of hopeful anticipation that made it past his shields. He could see it in Bond's eyes as well, highlighted in the cone from the street lamp.  
  
He stepped close enough to feel the heat of Bond's body, the muscles hidden by fabric, and kissed his cheek. Slight stubble scratched his lips and the spicy note of aftershave was pleasant. Q drew back with a smile, his decision made.  
  
"Next time."  
  
His wrist was caught, but Q could break away from those callused fingers with ease if he wanted to. Bond's breath was warm on his face, his thumb moving circles over his pulse that was quicker than it should have been.  
  
"I'll hold you to that."  
  
"I would be very disappointed if you didn't."  
  
  
  
[ _The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure, the process, is its own reward._ ~ Amelia Earhart]  
  
The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to anyone who left kudos/comments! You make my day! On another note: we had enough fluff for now, right? So let's get back to action, shall we? ;)


End file.
